


To be a Grey Warden

by Lily2026



Series: Tamsin Surana [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Dark themes and shit, F/F, F/M, I'll edit tags as i go, Light BDSM, Masochism, Rough Sex, Sadomasochism, Self-Harm, Sex, Smut, but yeah seriously descriptive self harm, origins story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-25
Updated: 2018-06-22
Packaged: 2019-02-01 15:15:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12707532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lily2026/pseuds/Lily2026
Summary: Pieces of Tamsin Surana's experiences throughout the Blight, focusing on developing herself and her friendships more than the main story.





	1. Decisions

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there!  
> *Warning: lots of self harm, masochism, sadism, blood. In the sequel, there will be bdsm so I feel like i should warn you in case you get involved
> 
> This story will cover Tamsin's time stopping the Blight in Ferelden, up until the death of the Archdemon. Enjoy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOU MAY HAVE NOTICED THIS WAS NOT ORIGINALLY THE FIRST CHAPTER. I decided to split Surana's time at the Circle into it's own story as I may add a few one-shots to it, and I decided to compress this story to only include the Blight. As it is, enjoy
> 
>  
> 
> Apologies for the heavy game dialogue that is the first half of this chapter. I just feel like it's an important transition.

**Chapter 1**

**9:30 Dragon, Kocarri Wilds**

When she wakes, Surana thinks she’s in her bunk at the Circle Tower. It feels wrong, lumpier and rougher. She cracks her eyes open and realizes she isn’t in the Tower anymore. No, there was the battle, the Tower of Ishal… She should be dead. Tamsin sits up and looks around the room.

“Ah, your eyes finally open. Mother shall be pleased.” It’s the witch, from before. Morrigan. This must be her mother’s hut. The mage jolts, hands pressing against her skin, but her wounds are only scars. Healing magic.

“Morrian,” Surana offers in confusion.

“Indeed. We are in the wilds, and I am tending your wounds. You are welcome, by the way. How does your memory fare? Do you remember mother’s rescue?”

The elf blinks a few times, reaching back in her memories, but ultimately, shakes her head. “I went down. I don’t recall getting here.”

“Mother managed to save you and your friend, though it was a close call. What is important is that you both still live. The man who was to respond to your signal… quit the field. The darkspawn won your battle. Those he abandoned were massacred. Your friend... he is not taking it well,” Morrigan explains.

“My friend… Alistair?” Surana asks. Her eyes rove over Morrigan’s appearance, appreciating. The witch wore old clothes, nearly rags, but with confidence. She was beautiful; her golden eyes enrapturing, if Surana would let them be. But, with disappointment, she dismisses the passing consideration. It’s not the time.

“The dim-witted one you were with before, yes. He is outside by the fire. Mother asked to see you when you awoke.”

“Then I will go see them,” Tamsin offers.

“I will stay, and make something to eat,” Morrigan replies without inflection. She returns to the cooking fire, and Tamsin pulls herself out of bed to head for the door. The hut is comfortable, if small, and when truly considered, the area was much more well equipped than one would expect from a Witch of the Wild’s hut. It looks like the type of place she would want to settle down, someday. Perhaps a dog.

Outside, she is greeted by the white-haired woman, Morrigan’s mother. Her clothes are nothing to look at; truly, there is nothing remarkable to note about her. Perhaps that is the intention. Alistair is nearby, already dressed back in his armour, which has been cleaned.

“See, here she is. You worry too much, young man,”she says. Alistair turns from the water to face his fellow Grey Warden, the relief clear on his face.

“You… You’re alive. I thought you were dead for sure.” He sounds legitimately distraught.

“Thankfully, I am not,” Surana replies simply.

“This doesn’t seem real. If not for Morrigan’s mother, we’d be dead atop that tower.”

“Do not talk about me as if I am not present, lad,” the woman interrupts.

“But you never told us your name. What do we call you?” Alistair asks. Tamsin is unconcerned; there is no need to fear an apostate, even one who seems as powerful as this witch. She’d have killed them already if she wanted to, so ultimately, there was no need to be so afraid to offend her. Perhaps it was a good sign that the templar wasn’t about to walk all over her.

“Names are pretty, but useless. The Chasind folk call me Flemeth, I suppose it will do.”

“The Flemeth? From the legends? Daveth was right. You’re the Witch of the Wilds, aren’t you?” It seems to Tamsin that nerves tinge his words, and it pushes respect for this man even father down. Yet, he seems kinder than she would have expected from a templar, so perhaps an amiable travelling companion could be made of him in the short term.

“And what does that mean? I know a bit of magic, and it has served you both well, has it not?”

“Indeed,” Tamsin interrupts before Alistair can shove his foot in his mouth. “Thank you. But... why?”

“Well,” Flemeth begins, “we can’t have all the Grey Wardens dying at once, can we? Someone has to deal with these darkspawn. It has always been the Grey Warden’s duty to unite the lands against the Blight, or did that change when I wasn’t looking?”

It’s something Tamsin hasn’t considered since waking up. It seemed a given; get out of these Wilds. From there? She hasn’t thought. She isn’t used to it; it almost feels like she could expect to just walk back into the Circle and go about the same complacent life she had become accustomed to. But, no, she wasn’t going to. That life is over, now, and she’s a Grey Warden. Surana never saw that as important, though. She didn’t join to stop the Blight, or for noble ideals. It was self-interest. She didn’t expect to find herself as one of the two surviving wardens in Ferelden during a Blight.

It seems like that’s something she can’t just walk away from.

“We should probably go to Orlais,” Surana muses aloud. They were going to need to at least tell someone about this mess. Before she leaves, of course. “Those are the nearest Wardens, yes?”

Alistair shakes his head. “Cailan already summoned them. They’ll come if they can, but I expect Loghain has already taken steps to stop them. We must assume they won’t arrive in time.”

“So, what, we’re supposed to stop a Blight, just the two of us? I sure hope you have a plan for that.” Pragmatically speaking, the idea doesn’t hold much appeal for Tamsin. A nation was slowly but surely settling down on her shoulders, and despite the bite in her voice, she couldn’t help but hope Alistair did have a plan. The other warden shakes his head, turning away in frustration.

“I can’t believe that Teyrn Loghain would turn against the King. If Arl Eamon knew what he did, he’d never stand for it. The landmeet would never stand for it. There would be civil war.”

“You think we could go to this Arl?” Tamsin offers. Perhaps she can hand him the fate of Ferelden and hop on a ship heading somewhere far from the Circle Tower.

“Arl Eamon wasn’t at Ostagar. He still has all his men, and he was Cailan’s uncle. I know him. He’s a good man, respected in the landsmeet. We could go to Redcliffe and appeal to him for help,” Alistair realizes, turning back around to face Flemeth and Tamsin. In a way, this is a man with innocence; he has hope.

“You have more at your disposal than merely old friends,” Flemeth interjects. Alistair’s hopw shines brighter on his face.

“Of course! The treaties. Grey Wardens can demand elves from Orzammar, the elves, the mages in cases of Blights.”

“I may be old, but dwarves, elves, mages? This Arl Eamon? This sounds like an army to me,” Flemeth prods.

“So, can we do this? Go to Redcliffe and the other places and build an army?” He turns, resolute. “It’s always been the Grey Wardens’ duty to defend against a Blight. And right now, we’re the Grey Wardens.”

Tamsin shudders. With finality, the nation of Ferelden and its people settles in on her shoulders, a nice heavy burden she hadn’t asked for. A hopeful companion, almost puppy-like, full of hope and idealism staring her in the face, eyes brightening. It isn’t like she can say no, and walk away from it.

 “Ready to be Grey Wardens?” Flemeth offers.

“It seems so,” Surana offers meekly.

“Now, before you go, there is but one more thing I can offer you.” Flemeth stops, turning as the door to the house swings open and Morrigan steps through.

“The stew is boiling, mother dear, shall we have two guests for the eve, or none?” she asks.

“The Grey Wardens will be leaving shortly, my dear, and you will be joining them.”

“Oh, that’s such a shame—what?” Morrigan jolts, her relaxed demeanor turning to shock.

“The last time I looked, you had ears.” The line reminded Surana of her mother, though those memories were vague at best. Flemeth laughs, entertained by her daughters’ shock.

“Thank you, but if Morrigan doesn’t wish to join us, then—” Surana starts. She is sure they will need the help, and the idea of a fellow mage for company next to the nearly-a-templar is appealing, but Tamsin doesn’t want an unwilling follower.

“Her magic will be useful, even better, she knows the Wilds and how to get past the horse,” Flemeth explains.

“Am I to be given no say in this?”

“You have been itching to get out of the Wilds for years. Here is your chance. As for you, Wardens, consider this repayment for your lives.” The exchange provokes sympathy in Tamsin. While she always wanted out of the Tower, these aren’t the ideal circumstances for her, either.

“If she’s willing to come along,” is all the elf offers.

“Not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but, won’t this add to our problems? Outside the Wilds, she’s an apostate,” Alistair interrupts. A spark of irritation floods into Tamsin.

“If she wants to help, she comes,” the mage snaps, the decision brokering no argument.

“Mother, this is not how I wanted this. I’m not even ready,” Morrigan says. Understandably, it is a sudden adjustment. Tamsin steps away to allow them to speak further before they leave. She wanders to the edge of the water, passing Alistair without comment.

Tamsin sulks. This Blight business wasn’t supposed to go like this. It was going to be done in a day, then she’d be off sailing to the sunny beaches of Antiva, or the charming intrique of Orlais. That had seemed a good choice; she speaks Orlesian, after all. That isn’t happening, not now at least. No, now she’s supposed to traipse off around the countryside, recruiting an army to the fight darkspawn and kill a fucking archdemon.

The beast she’d seen in her sleep, when she did the Joining. She tries not to think about how it made her feel.

Morrigan returns from the hut, a bag packed and in hand. Tamsin stands to meet the others, no supplies to speak of. Her staff along with everything else was lost in the tower. Truly, she’d had no attachments to material possessions since she was a child. She isn’t saddened by the loss.

“I am at your disposal, Grey Wardens. I suggest a village north of the wilds as our first destination. Tis not far, and you’ll find much you need there. Or if you prefer, I will simply be your silent guide. The choice is yours.”

Tamsin frowns, and before Alistair can shove a wedge between her and the other, not-a-templar person in their group, she says, “Speak your mind.” Her eyes flicker over to Alistair. “The company is welcome. To the village, then.”

Flemeth barks a laugh. “Ah, you will regret saying that.”

“Dear, sweet, mother, you are so kind to cast me out like this. How fondly will I remember this moment,” Morrigan mocks, though it is obvious there is emotion behind her words.

“Well I always said, if you want something done, do it yourself. Or hear about it for about a decade afterwards.”

“I just,” Alistair interrupts. He turns to Tamsin directly. “Do you really want to take her along because her mother says so?”

“We need help,” is all she says. She’s in no mood to fight with him, but her mind echoes, ‘is it because she’s a mage?’

“I suppose you’re right. The Grey Wardens have always taken allies where they can find them.”

“I am so pleased to have your approval,” Morrigan mocks.

“Let’s go,” Tamsin interrupts before they could get into a spat. She can already see the relations in this group being strenuous. That won’t be a problem, though, if she just slips away in the night once they reach this village.

“Farewell, mother. Don’t forget the stew on the fire, I would hate to return to a burned down hut.”

“Tis far more likely you will return to see this entire area, along with my hut, swallowed up by the Blight,” Flemeth laughs. Tamsin wonders if she is quite sane, and decides that no, she is not.

“Mother… I only meant…”

“Yes, I know. Do try to have fun, dear.”

 

 

 

 

 

“What do you think, boy?” Surana whispers. “About this Blight business, I mean. Should we slip out of camp, you and I, in the dark of the night?”

The war dog whimpers and smacks the elf firmly in the arm with his chin. He promptly lays across her legs, trapping her in place.

“Understood, dog.” The decision has already been made in her heart, anyway. “That means I have to decide where we’re going to go in the morning.” Redcliffe, the mages, the Dalish? Truly, Surana had expected Alistair to decide, yet at Lothering, he’d placed the burden on her shoulders.

The bedroll is thin and uncomfortable, but still vastly preferable to the dark confines of a tent. The mage reclines, dog and blanket across her lap, with her new pack as a pillow. There had been little by way of supplies in Lothering, but they’d purchased as much as they could to make the journey; the dwarven merchants they’d met on their way out of the village had been especially helpful. The growing party only has three tents as a result, including the ragged one Morrigan brought from her hut. The first is claimed by Alistair, and by default, Sten, the newest member of the ragtag team, shares it. Surana would be welcome to share the other with Leliana, but she prefers the open air and warmth of the campfire.

“It seems we’re picking up quite the group,” the elf mutters. The dog shifts his head to face her, listening. “We’ve got some odd ones. An apostate, a templar, a Chantry sister, and a Qunari. It’s quite a team.” The mabari blinks, and Surana takes it as agreement. “Then there’s me and you, but I think we’re the normal ones.” A snort. “Come on. The Sister thinks she’s been chosen by the Maker.” No reply. “I think she and I will have to agree to disagree.” The mabari whines. “She says she was a bard, once, though, so maybe we can get along.” His ears perk up. “At least she’s not a templar.” He turns away from her, shifting pointedly. “I know, I know, you like Alistair.” A snort. Surana closes her eyes, hand thoughtlessly reaching down to scratch the dogs’ ears.

“Move off my legs, you great oaf,” Surana mutters, pushing the dog’s side. He sighs, but doesn’t move. “Panelan.” Finally, he rolls to the side, the great, ferocious war dog flopping over beside the Grey Warden. She rolls onto her side, stretching her legs, and reaches her arm over him. “Alistair’s all right, you know. I just.” She pauses. “I just can’t trust a templar, Panelan.”

The mabari turns and licks her forehead once. She takes the comfort and relaxes into the dog’s body.

Then the beauty; the song; the grotesque, misshapen silhouette of a dragon left on the cave wall; the pull; it’s all back. He speaks to her. The dragon, the great god, the allure of his voice pulls her in. She wanders closer and closer, reaching for him, until she turns away from the shadow on the cave wall and watches him in all his glory. He is gargantuan, monstrous, and he rears his head to look at her. A weight like lead hits her in the stomach and an ice cold shiver tears down her spine, face to face with the beast. It opens it great maw and releases a booming bellow, shattering her ears and wrenching a scream from her throat.

Surana shoots up in alarm, the sound dying in her throat before it’s released. Panelan leaps up and immediately falls into a defensive stance, circling her protectively. Wildly, the elf spins about in every direction, coming to her feet only to be met face-to-face by Alistair.

“Templar,” she barks, the term inseparable from Alistair’s face ever since she found out, and stumbles backwards. Her palms sweat, her breathing is uneven. Panelan moves quickly, leaping between Surana and Alistair, not threatening, but protecting. Tamsin falls back, landing on her bottom, eyes welling up with tears. The man takes a step towards them, his armour glinting in the rising sun’s light, but stops at the dog’s warning growl.

Leliana exits her tent at that moment. The bard opens her mouth to intercede, but Surana is already pulling herself to her feet. She faces Leliana and the already present Sten, which involves turning her back on Alistair, something which feels akin to turning one’s back on a wild bear.

“Pack up,” she snaps, attempting to return to normal. “We’re heading out.” She stalks over to the dying fire and dumps the waiting pot of water into the sizzling embers, sending a fresh cloud of smoke into the sky. Panelan glues himself to her side, Alistair forgotten, as she rolls up her bedroll. She angles herself away from her party, refusing to be so obvious as to wipe the tears falling on her cheeks until she is packed up and free to wander away from camp.

She stops at the treeline, closer to Morrigan’s distant tent. The others are taking longer, as they have far more supplies, but she’s relieved to have the time to collect herself. She sits down at the base of a tree, facing Panelan.

The elf scrubs the tears from her face, cursing under her breath. “Damn the Circle, damn the templars. What have the done? Look what they’ve done, boy, look at me.” She can’t stop more tears from leaking out. Her mind can’t separate Alistair from a threat; in truth, it’s not only subconscious. She doesn’t trust him. He doesn’t seem to share many Chantry views up front, but it feels to her that she’s waiting for something she knows is there to round the corner and snap at her.

“I can’t escape them,” she mutters a last time, her tears running dry. Her eyes are red and puffy, but she notices the rest of her party has nearly finished packing up, so she steels herself to return.

When she does, walking back to the others with one hand on her dog, she’s already shouldered her pack. She’s prepared to leave.

“Time to move.”

The others look at her, even Morrigan, who has now joined them. It’s Alistair who steps up, his voice hesitant.

“Where are we going?”

“Redcliffe,” she replies simply, passing him to return to the road. The others’ footsteps fall in behind her.

As she walks, tears threaten her again and her spirit squirms inside her. It wasn’t a decision she wanted to make. What if it’s wrong?


	2. Cowardice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As she walks, tears threaten her again and her spirit squirms inside her. It wasn’t a decision she wanted to make. What if it’s wrong?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey nerds thanks for reading my trash
> 
>  
> 
> if I switch to first person past tense would that be too alarming?  
> I dont really want to revise at the moment

#  **Chapter 2**

**9:30 Dragon, Redcliffe Castle**

Blood and guts still spatter Surana’s robes as she leaves her assigned chambers without washing. She has no patience for it with the walls enclosing her again. Truly, exhaustion creeps into her bones after the night and day of saving a village and infiltrating a castle, only to be sent via a blood magic sacrifice into the Fade to kill a demon. It would have been inconceivable to her when leaving Lothering, let alone when she was leaving the Circle. Never would she have imagined she would spend a day like this one, nor that sleep would evade her at the end of it. 

So, she walks the halls of the castle, heading for the dungeons and making her best effort not to think about the thick stone walls surrounding her. Her breaths come sharply, her head light. A distraction. She needs a distraction. She reaches down and squeezes her thigh, digging her nails in as hard as she can. It’s not ideal, but it does the trick temporarily, a grunt of effort leaving her. She feels more grounded; it’s easier not to focus on the walls. 

The heavy door to the dungeons swings open with effort. Inside, she is met with Jowan. Her former friend. He’d poisoned the Arl; an inconvenience, to be sure, but ultimately Surana has no love for him. Deep down, she felt something when she saw Alistair find out, but he’s a templar, and she has no intentions of becoming friendly with one of the enemy. 

“Are you only going to wallow, Jowan?” she begins. Her friend is leaning against the wall, sat with his head in his hands. He looks up at her with a tired expression. 

“I will be executed, Tamsin,” he starts, but the panic she expects, like the time he told her they were going to make him tranquil, is gone. 

“Oh, right. I forgot.” 

“Is now really the time for jokes?” Jowan snaps. 

“It’s not your funeral.” She pauses, stepping closer and dangling a key in front of her. “That is, if you’re up for a bargain.” She won’t forget how he ran out on them. For all he knew, she could have been executed that day. Suspiciously, her childhood friend peers up at her, moving to get to his feet.

“What could you want from me?” 

“Show me how,” she demands, drawing her dagger. “You said you learned from a book. How does it work, Jowan?” She grows more insistent with each word. Jowan, now on his feet, looks pained. 

“Why do you want to learn a thing like that?” He looks down at his hands. “I planned to never use it again. If not for that… Lily wouldn’t hate me.” 

“So show me and leave. Become a farmer.” Surana reaches out, pressing the blade into the palm of her hand. Slowly, she drags is down, slicing her skin with satisfaction. “Have you ever had your magic suppressed, Jowan?” 

The mage shifts his weight from foot to foot and shakes his head. Surana clenches her fist, blood welling up and dripping onto the floor. 

“Show me.” 

Silence fills the air for a time as Jowan rubs at his temples in frustration. With a sigh, he acquiesces. 

“The most difficult part is learning to sense the energy in your blood.”  _ And that of others _ , is the unspoken implication. “From there, it can be used similarly to your regular magicka. It’s difficult to teach your senses to feel something they didn’t before, which is why it’s so difficult to learn from a book and so easy to learn from a demon. But,” he adds, “I can do the same thing easily enough, the same way the Enchanters did when we were learning as children. Likely, it’ll be even easier.” 

“So this will be simple?” Surana avoids commenting on how he put so much effort into learning blood magic from a book, but still managed to be so mediocre with everything else. 

“Very,” he agrees. He reaches out, touching Surana’s hand gently and uncurling her fingers. His mana wraps itself around hers, guiding her aura, and she moves with it. He pulls at her blood, guiding her aura to do the same, and as easily as that, the pathway is open. Pulling the blood from her veins, she pushes energy into a fireball, growing it until the heat becomes uncomfortable. With a gasp, she releases the stream of magic and slumps backwards onto the wall. Breathing hard, she looks down at her own hand, surprised at what she’s done. 

“So, the rest is practice,” she sighs. 

Jowan meets her eyes, though he glances quickly at the key hanging on her belt. She grimaces, irritated at what has become of her meek friend, and tosses the key on the floor in his cell. Gracelessly, he scrambles for it as though there are other prisoners to contend with. He comes to his feet triumphantly, but Surana is already moving for the door. Without a word of farewell, she shoves her way out of the dungeon, heading back for her own chambers. 

  
  


* * *

 

Once there, it’s safe for her to practice. Sometimes, the fireball flares to life, while others she doesn’t manage so much as a spark. One more time, she pulls on the energy in her blood, attempting to shape it into some form, but the spark fizzles out. Frustrated, she leaps to her feet, only to give herself a head rush. She trips backwards, landing on the stone floor, far too reminiscent of another cold, stone floor - one upon which she had routinely tore her back to shreds. 

Delirious, she rolls onto her side. Panic sets in, her breaths speeding up and pain gripping her chest. She clutches at her robes, tearing and ripping at the collar until her chest is exposed. She thinks she can’t breathe; scrambling for the fresh air of the window, she knocks open the shutters, releasing the chill morning air. The sun was beginning to rise. 

Hacking over the windowsill, she sees spots, darkness pulling at the corners of her vision. 

When she wakes, she’s still in the same position. No one has come to get her; it’s only the break of dawn, and everyone must want to rest up while they can enjoy real beds. She feels likely more exhausted than she had when she lost consciousness; unconsciousness and sleep, it seems, don’t have the same effects. Her muscles scream because of her precarious position on the table, halfway out the ajar window. It’s a relief nobody saw her perched like this. 

Her sore muscles oppose her attempts to move, but she succeeds in shifting herself to the bed. She checks her wrists, finding her left arm already scattered with sideways slashes from her knife. Not wanting to be found for a blood mage, she seeks out a healing potion in her packs and pours it over the cuts. She’s no good at healing magic; she really can’t even heal a scratch. The cuts don’t close right away, so she wraps some bandages around her arm, hoping no one will think anything of it, considering the mobs of undead they’d fought through to get here. Truly, yesterday was an ordeal. 

Surana slides into the chair in front of the vanity, splashing water from the washing bowl onto her face. Staring airily at the mirror, the face of the first man she’d ever killed - one of the bandits they group had encountered leaving Lothering - swims in her mind. His features are blurry, and she can’t quite remember if he used a shield or a greatsword. 

“What’s wrong with me?” she whispered, barely recognizing her own reflection. In stories, the hero - her, the dashing Warden, left to face impossible odds, falsely wanted by the law, yet still trying to save the lives of the people - well, the hero is haunted at night by those he’s had to kill. The hero mourns each loss. The hero makes the right decisions. The hero stops the enemy without lowering himself. 

She looks at the bandages on her arm. 

Is it the act of a hero? Perhaps a darker one. Saving the people by any means necessary. Ruthless, making the hard decisions. Sacrificing the one for the many. 

_ I’m not the hero _ , she thinks. 

It’s the act of a coward. 

She remembers the cell. The cold, damp room, the  _ drip, drip, drip _ of the water when it rains. The loneliness. 

She didn’t dream in the cell. 

It was closer to being Tranquil than she ever wanted to get, and this… this they couldn’t take from her. With this, she could blow that cell door off its hinges. 

Tamsin stands up rapidly, knocking the chair backwards onto the floor. The crash is loud enough to be uncomfortable. She can’t think straight. They need to keep travelling but - no, no, she needs this blood off her. She shucks her robes - no longer Circle robes, but rather nondescript rags more akin to what Morrigan wears. 

It hasn’t even been a month since Ostagar. Her cheeks are thinner, her eyes hollowed out, but her muscles are more toned than ever before, even more than when she was in solitary confinement. Surana grabs the rag and begins rubbing down her naked body, dedicated to rubbing each piece of skin until its raw. 

She tries to remember the face of the first man she killed. What colour was his hair?

Why doesn’t it matter?

She imagines him as a father, with a family, and tries to picture his wife grieving, but it’s no use. She can barely remember what a family looks like, let alone how one might grieve. So what if he had a wife? 

_ I’m a monster _ . She scrubs harder, finally reaching her callused feet. Calluses she had gained in the past few weeks, blood soaking her boots from the walking and blisters painfully tearing open over and over.

“What if Anders could see me now?” she wonders aloud. She bursts out into laughter, toppling back onto the bed. Tears begin leaking from her eyes. There’s an ache in her heart whenever she thinks of him. “Love?” she demands of no one. Is this what it feels like, she wonders, is it even real, with the state of the world, the state of her life? How can you love when your life is nothing but the feeling of tearing your back open against a stone floor and the fear of losing something that is integral to your being? 

“‘No, mister templar, I’m a Grey Warden, I swear!’” she mocks, hysteria creeping into her voice. “A lie would sound more believable.” 

So much for protection, when your order is decimated. 

Surana glances out the window, noticing the sun creeping higher on the horizon. The others would likely be eating breakfast, and she worries someone may come to find her. In a desperate need to ground herself, she reaches under her bandages and digs her nails into the raw cuts on her forearm. 

Pain flares up, but she breathes, focusing solely on the pain and allowing it to center her. She lets her mind fill with the feeling of hurt, forcing other thoughts out. 

In not too long, she’s able to dress. 

 

* * *

  
  


Throughout the day of travel, Tamsin wishes she’d slept more in the room. The few hours of unconsciousness she achieved weren’t serving her well on the half day’s walk towards The Brecillian Forest. It was even more uncomfortable, since she - and most of her companions - had selected gear from Redcliffe’s armory. That was how she found herself trudging down the road in studded leather armour, which Morrigan, who is the best company of the group, finds absurd for a mage. 

“Look, I’m definitely not planning on wading into the thick of battle,” she says with finality. And she really isn’t, not at all. In reality, she’s grasping at anything she can use to stop herself from ever being caught again. The idea reminds her of something she’s been meaning to ask the witch about for some time. 

“So, shapeshifting. It is something you learned, yeah?” she asks. The subject of magic has her mind flicking back to the cuts on her arm, and she nervously glances at Alistair. 

“Why do you ask?” Morrigan replies. 

“I have heard of such magic in Dalish writings,” Tamsin offers. Learning to read sparse Elvhen had been a strange endeavour at the Circle. There were three books written in the language, dust covered tomes which likely would have been removed from the library if someone else had found them. Surana had only been able to piece together certain sections of the book, between the one Dalish elf she pestered to teach her what Elvhen he knew and then learning the alphabet from nothing. Truly, she only knew that such magic existed, perhaps, if she had translated those words correctly, maybe. 

“Truly, you have read elven writings? There are few Dalish works remaining in the world.”

“Fortunately for me, it isn’t as though the templars spend their time reading dusty old magic tomes - or, for that matter, that most mages do. Many read, but I made a ponit of selecting dust covered books which had not been touched in years, hoping to find things that others had forgotten. Among them were a couple of books in Elvhen, though my sparse knowledge of the language didn’t enable me to actually read them in full. I suspected that one detailed magic such as yours, though I was not able to comprehend the tome.” 

“I wonder, if I were to speak with a Keeper about the origin of their magic, there would be any relation to what I was taught.” The group is headed for the Brecillian Forest to find the Dalish before they journey to Denerim, so the opportunity to ask was imminent.

“The Dalish are loath to part with their secrets, unfortunately,” Tamsin sighs. 

A few moments pass before Morrigan switches the subject. 

“So, have you an opinion on my abilities, then? Am I an unnatural abomination to be put to the torch?” An edge creeps into her voice. 

“On the contrary, they sound very useful. I would be interested in learning, if you ever felt willing to teach,” the Warden suggests.

Instead of answering directly, Morrigan says, “You are not what I expected from a Circle mage.” 

Once the sun has journeyed across the sky, the group settles in on the side of the road for the night. They’ve gained a packhorse since Redcliffe, so their supplies have been replenished, and on top of that it is easier to carry. Sten begins unloading the cooking supplies, while Alistair finishes propping up the men’s tent. Leliana is seeing to the women’s, while Morrigan has distanced herself a bit from camp, though she has begun to do so less. 

Tamsin and Panelan are returning from fetching water. She sets the buckets down next to the fire. 

“Tamsin,” Alistair interrupts, having finished the tent. He gestures at the horse. “I can show you how to care for her?” 

Disliking any attention from the former Templar in training, Tamsin glances around for an out, but doesn’t find one. Resigning herself to a bit of time with him, she follows him to the horse. 

“Now that we’re back at the camp, I wanted to talk about what happened at Redcliffe,” Alistair starts. 

“All right,” Tamsin agrees reluctantly. Abruptly, Alistair is enraged. 

“You let Lady Isolde sacrifice herself! With blood magic! How could you do that?” 

Irritation bubbling inside her, she snaps, “You think I should have killed the little boy instead?” 

“We could have gone tothe Circle of Magi! We cou-”

“Sure, and what would have happened to Redcliffe, in our absence?” Tamsin interrupts. “The demon would have taken control, killed more people, raised more undead. Had we left the problem to fester, Isolde might be dead anyway, along with Teagan, the Arl, and everyone else.” 

“We should have tried something that didn’t involve blood magic, at least!” 

Tamsin’s hand twitches, about to cover her bandaged and armoured forearms, but she stops the reaction. 

“You refused to lead, Alistair, so if you want me to make the decisions, you’re going to have to damn well live with them,” she barked. She spins away from the horse, stalking back to the women’s tent she had been refusing to sleep in for weeks. She storms inside, followed brusquely by Panelan, leaving the others to eat. 


	3. Elvhen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dalish Quest plus

#  **Chapter 3**

**9:30 Dragon, Brecillian Forest**

The Dalish weren’t quite as friendly as Surana had hoped. 

Meeting the Dalish is like a childhood dream for many a city-dwelling elf, her included. Every poor elf child hears tales of their free cousins, living away from human persecution. But it isn’t what she expected. They greet her as an outsider, rather than long lost family; most were cordial, but she was not one of them, and she felt it.. She didn’t want to admit to her companions that she was let down, so the next day, she channels the energy into tearing apart the undead residents of the Brecillian Forest. 

“Left!” Alistair shouts. 

Tamsin spins in the direction, magic already at her fingertips, and splashes flames into the face of an undead corpse. Inconveniently, the Veil is thin enough here to create such things. She doesn’t thank him, only returns to their fight, shooting a bolt of lightning at an enemy who is creeping up behind Leliana. With the dead put back to rest, they push deeper into the ruins. 

“Werewolves, corpses, giant spiders - what the fuck’s next?” Surana exclaims, leading the way deeper into the ruins. She wishes she hadn’t lost her staff at Ostagar, if only to knock the damn beasts back a few paces while she casts. If only it was easier to come across those things. 

“I have a bad feeling about this…” Leliana trails off. 

“Do you think the werewolves ever take vacation?” Alistair quips. “I could use one right about now, should we ask them?” 

“Oh, come on, you two. It’s only Monday,” Surana says. Panelan ruffs lowly in agreement, trudging on near the head of the party. Sten trails silently at the back, sword drawn and at the ready. 

As the group steps into the next room, a large room, full of traps, which Leliana quickly points out. She moves ahead of the party to begin disarming them, while the others spread out and look for threats. 

“Watch out, Panelan,” Tamsin warns.

A roar interrupts them about halfway into the room. To their great surprise, a young dragon rushes forwards, charging for Leliana, who dives agilely out of the way. Alistair jumps ahead, charging with his shield to take the brunt of the beast’s damage. The bard pulls out her bow, and begins shooting from the dragon’s flank. Sten, from the other side of the room, shouts and charges the beast - Surana thinks she can see an echo of joy on his face, just barely. 

Tamsin rushes to the side, aiming with ice to shatter the dragon’s wings as a first step. They were the weakest point. She coats them, and Sten’s sword cuts into the left one, shattering thin parts and mutilating the rest. Alistair bashes its head with his shield, leaving room for Leliana to dig a few arrows into its flank. 

“Sten, watch out!” Surana barely has time to shout before the dragon’s right leg kicks him in the side, knocking him off balance. She shoots a spike of ice over Sten’s head, which justs into the dragon’s neck. It keels in pain, and Alistair rushes forwards to finish it off, pinning its head with his shield, and stabs his sword deep into the beast’s chest. 

The party backs off to breathe, a bit of shock settling over them. A dragon is a new experience, even small. 

“Didn’t expect that,” Surana mutters, more to herself, then continues, louder, “Should we keep moving? Witherfang won’t cut his own heart out.” 

Wordlessly agreeing, the party gathers their bearings - and fill their bags from the dragon’s hoard - and continues through the ruin. As the reach the end of the room, Sten finally speaks up. 

“Some architect clearly suffered from an unrequited love of the pointed arch.” 

Surana moves out of her previous thoughts, surprised by the sudden comment. She glances up at the ceiling, observing the architecture, and then stifles a short laugh before finally giving into full laughter. The image of Sten sitting over a desk, studying architecture, strikes her. 

They move into the lower ruins. 

 

***

  
  


As soon as they do so, Surana is on edge. The stone walls, the chill - it’s all to familiar. It’s all she can do to focus on the fighting and forcefully press forwards as rapidly as possible. As long as she didn’t panic, she’d survive. She stops responding to her companion’s quarries and sticks constantly to Panelan’s side. She keeps one hand on him whenever possible. It helps, mildly. 

An elven ritual, some dead spiders and a few dead shades later, Surana makes the interesting discovery of an ancient phylactery. She lifts it carefully, studying the blood inside. She senses a presence of some sort. 

“A trapped spirit?” she muses aloud. Images flit through her mind, she spirit communicating in quick emotions and imagery. An ancient elf, a mage, though her memories are jumbled. She fled battle, believing someone would come for her, but no one did. Wordlessly, Surana inquires for more information with her own feelings. 

The elf was a mage and a warrior - Dirth’ena’salin - an Arcane Warrior. Fascinated, Surana presses for more information, a million questions forming in her mind at once. How was such a thing done?

The presence can teach, she says. She can share her remaining knowledge, and finally rest. 

Surana steps back for a moment, considering if this could be the Fade, or this creature a demon, but finds herself awake and surrounded by her alarmed and confused companions. Alistair takes a step towards her, arm reached out, but Surana snaps her attention back to the phylactery, agreeing simultaneously before Alistair could stop her. 

Images overtake her. Memories flood into her mind that are not her own. One hand on the phylactery and one on her forehead, she reels back, losing all sense of her physical form as she is absorbed into the body of the ancient elf - the warrior without a name. She sees her - the warrior, in silver armour, with brilliant blonde hair and the vallaslin of Andruil tattooed on her face. It is a reflection. Her memories flit in front of Surana’s eyes, and into her limbs. She moves with the warrior. 

_ She is a young girl, training under a strict tutor, late for lessons. She trains for years, flickering past her vision, with an older man, also bearing Andruil’s vallaslin. She grows into a woman, learning with him, day to day. She is called Ashavise. She’s late for lessons, and she has to do many dishes that night.  _

_ She is older, no longer training with the man, surrounded by a group of other warriors - friends, she feels - three men and another woman. One bears the vallaslin of Dirthamen, the rest Andruil. They train together, and patrol. One day, the man with Dirthamen’s vallaslin is gone - Surana does not know why. She can’t understand their words, though they flow from her mouth as a native speaker, she can barely wrap her mind around their meaning as it flies through her head. She can’t keep up with the words. _

_ A woman is walking through a courtyard. Surana watches from the crowd, one among many, both armoured and not, all elves, painted with vallaslin - save the one woman, with vibrant red braids, walking through the centre of the crowd, which parts in front of her and her entourage. She is flanked by similarly dressed warriors, minimal vallaslin on their faces, expressing devotion to Andruil. They look fierce, though behind them trail servants, who look cowed and afraid. Surana peers at the faces of those around her - they seem discouraged, unhappy, some concerned.  _

_ Some time later, the woman still present in Surana’s temple city, they are out on a hunt. They ride harts, Surana included, feeling as though she has done so all her life. Words flow from her mouth to her companions - Elvhen, too quick for her to understand so quickly. Someone cries out, having sighted their prey, and Ashavise turns to shoot - it is a young boy. An arrow pierces his back.  _

_ A battle. Ashavise is fighting, a whirlwind through a sea of other vallaslin-wearing elves. At the head of the field, on a chariot, sits the woman from before, without vallaslin. Magic and the blade combine. Surana is comfortable in the style, moving reflexively through the field. _

_ She’s being whipped. One of her friends was a traitor. _

_ More battles follow. Sometimes, they fight elves with different vallaslin - sometimes they also bear dedications to Andruil. Eventually, they begin facing mixed armies, or forces that bear no vallaslin at all. They achieve great success.   _

_ Then great failure. They face force of elves, greater in number, without vallaslin, led by a tall man, with flowing black hair. Magic flies around the battlefield and she runs - fleeing for the temple, for the vial.  _

“Tamsin. Tamsin!” 

Her body is being shook. Hands are on her shoulders. Her body feels foreign, her surroundings unfamiliar. 

“ _ Mahn ea ar? Ar ea ena’sal’in’amelan, sul’ana Andruil. Ar ea Ashavise, tas ma ea sul’ema su panathe! _ ” Ashavise shouts, jumping to her feet and leaving the vial abandoned on the altar. She can’t make sense of her surroundings, and confused, she stops, squinting at Leliana. 

“ _Shem’len?_ _Sul’ana ra harellan?”_

Ashavise spins around in the temple room, seeking her long gone weapon. When she doesn’t find it, she begins scrambling about the room. 

“Tamsin, are you in there?” Alistair steps towards her, but Ashavise raises an arm, coated in fire. Their eyes met and Alistair moves back. The flames extinguish. 

“Has she been possessed? Alistair, do something!” Leliana cries. 

Slowly, the mage’s movements slow down, digging through rubble less vigorously until she stops entirely. Surana comes back to herself, gradually regaining control of her body. She can’t speak, but rather stands dumbly for a few moments, trying to recall her situation. She has experienced an entire other lifetime - an immortal Elvhen one. 

Withdrawn into herself, it’s a shock when she’s hit with a holy smite. 

It doesn’t knock her out as it might have a child. No, instead, she feels every bit of it seeping into her and severing her from the Fade. Panic comes over her, her breathing sharp. She clatters to the ground, lying in a pile of rubble. She feels it when her companions circle her. Their closeness fills her with revulsion. 

The walls around her are too familiar. She can’t feel the Fade, the Veil, no matter how hard she reaches for it. As she fails to grasp it, her panic grows. She’s back in her solitary confinement cell. The stone floor scrapes against her bare arms, just as it did then. She can’t breathe, her chest is constricting, her lungs refuse to fill. She can’t move from her position lying on her side. 

She thinks she’s going to die, and when she loses consciousness, she thinks she has. 

***

 

Tamsin was out for only a few minutes. When she comes to, she’s greeted by worried faces. The first comfort to her is Panelan, standing over her lap, having chased Leliana and Alistair back to a distance. Sten remained, guarding the door, ever practical. Her breathing is nearly normal, though the tightness in her chest has only subsided marginally, she grasps Panelan tightly and tries to gain control of her own body. 

She has to order her memories. Her sense of time is jumbled, and she begins retracing their steps and the days since Ostagar. When she has finally oriented herself in time, she feels more secure. She is in a Dalish ruin, hunting a werewolf’s heart. She is Tamsin Surana, a Grey Warden. Unfortunately. 

Ashavise was an ancient Elvhen warrior who had done a memory transfer. 

She can delve into the elf’s memories, if she thinks about it. Actually, it is far easier to do than is comfortable. She remembers training at a temple as a young girl - but no, that wasn’t her. She pushes the memories from her current thoughts. She would have to deal with that later. 

She stands on shaky legs, steadying herself on her loyal mabari. Her magic is returning to her, if weaker than before. She wishes she had a staff, now, to fight with. 

“I am myself,” she says to Alistair and Leliana. They are the only words she says until they reach the werewolves. 

Each time she looks at Alistairs face, she recalls that he hit her with a Holy Smite. He nauseates her.

Surana wonders how she’d ever let herself begin to trust him. 

A Templar is a Templar.

 

***

 

“When I was told that Zathrian had rediscovered immortality, I was hoping for something a bit different,” Surana says.

“It seems t’was not his goal in creating this curse,” Morrigan replies. They exchange a smile.

Their party, returned to the Dalish camp after the successful breaking of the curse, was camped for the night. Surana had instructed them to remain a few days for a few reasons. The one she will never speak is that she’s shaken from her experiences, and needs time to sort her mind out. The second is that Varathorn is crafting a custom weapon for her, from ironbark, as it is the first time they’ve encountered someone with the skills to craft a mage’s staff. Surana was very specific, drawing on memories from Ashavise, in describing and drawing schematics with him. The third was simply to allow the party a day or two’s rest, which no one save Sten objected to. 

The mages, sitting before a fire, pass a few seconds in silence. 

“Tamsin,” Morrigan begins, the stops. Surana looks up at her. 

“Yes?”

“Do you still wish to learn to change your shape?” 

Surprised, Tamsin wakes up. Her eyes were heavy, but now, curiosity lit up her face. “Very much.” 

Morrigan leaned back against the stump she sat against. “I will teach you. Perhaps we can begin tomorrow?” 

Tamsin nodded slowly, resting back in her bedroll. The two has set up Morrigan’s tent next to a fire, separated from the rest of camp. Tamsin wanted one eye on Alistair, though she did not fully want to admit it. The open air and space from those she did not trust fully was the best thing for her at the moment, and Morrigan asked no questions on the subject. 

The elf drifted off by the fireside, sleep overtaking her quickly after the full days. 

 

The next thing she knew, she was in the Fade. Delighted, she finds the familiar environment of her dreamspace. It is a space she could see outside of the Circle Tower’s windows, a clearing in the trees by the lakeside. The Tower, looming over her, ever present, inescapable… but she ignores it, as she is outside. Free of it. 

Her dreamspace appears as such, and always has, since she has few memories to build a comfortable space with. Had she been able to imagine herself farther from the Tower, she would have done so in the first place. But now, now if she looks around, it’s nowhere in sight. She’s finally out. 

She could change the dreamscape. 

“But to what?” she mutters. 

She isn’t sure. The places she has been… Ostagar, Lothering, Redcliffe, the Dalish camp… They aren’t happy places. 

Perhaps the inn she’d stayed at with Duncan. That had been a happy night. 

She pictures it, struggling to push her perception on the environment around her. It has never been a perfectly easy task, but it was possible. Instead, her imagination and memories fail her. 

She hasn’t dreamt, aside from darkspawn nightmares, since leaving the Circle. Even so, it’s obvious the Fade is different today. A bit less mutable, a bit fuzzier. She’d been able to tell as soon as she arrived. She wonders if it is the Taint, or the blood magic, or if she simply isn’t sleeping as well. She always dreamt stronger, clearer, than the other mages; the Enchanters told her it was because her magic was stronger. At times, though, she wondered which was the cause and which the consequence. Was perhaps her magic stronger  _ because _ she was more connected to the Fade, instead?

“Tamsin!” 

Startled, Tamsin finds Curiosity has arrived in her space. She realizes she must have been open to the spirit. And questioning. For a moment, she is disappointed, since she has not been in the Fade for so long that she thought to enjoy peace. Immediately, she realizes she may not dream again for some time, and would prefer to speak with her friend.

“I’ve watched some of what you’ve done! You’ve gone so far. Are you a Grey Warden, now? I’ve heard of those before. How does one become a Grey Warden, exactly? Is there a ceremony? Do you swear an oath?” 

“Curiosity! Slow down, friend.” Tamsin sits back on her usual rock, and her friend joins her nearby. It is different, to speak with her, unworried that her Circle companions will find out and think her dangerous. “Yes, there is a ceremony, and actually, it’s rather more complex than you might expect. See, they have this blood mixture…” 

The purple-glowing young woman pays rapt attention as the mage explains the details of becoming a Grey Warden, and the consequences of it. 

“Fascinating!” the spirit exclaims. She processes the information faster than Surana ever could, and immediately presses onto the next issue. “You said you feel different? More distant?” 

“I don’t know if it’s the taint, the blood magic, or coincidence.” 

“Blood magic!” the spirit glances around. “Did you speak to another spirit? But, to answer your question, yes, I would hazard that it is the blood magic.”

“No, I did not speak with another spirit. My…”  _ Friend? _ “Jowan. He taught me the basic principle of the thing. Truly, I know very little about it. I can barely conjure a flame.” She sighs. “So it’s… weakened my connection? To the Fade?” 

“In a way. I’m uncertain about how your waking mana will be affected, but in my experience, blood mages are less aware of their surroundings. Their lucidity can fade when sleeping. I have watched blood mages dream, and considered that perhaps that is why your teachers say they are more susceptible to demons.” 

Surana, mind working slower than the spirit’s, has to process this new information for a moment. She leans back, running her hands through her hair. 

“I could have taught you, you know.” 

At that, Surana tilts her head to peer over at the spirit. “For what, a ride in my skin?” 

“No.” Curiosity manages to look affronted. “That might be interesting, but I would lose out on the long-term benefit of discussions with you.” 

“Oh.” 

Curiosity waves Surana over, so she slides down to sit cross-legged across from her. 

“So if you’re really planning on helping me with this, Curiosity, I’m going to need a stated, understood agreement. I don’t plan on accidentally giving away my fucking body.”  _ Or gods know what else.  _

“Very well. Practical,” she replies. “I will help you learn to use blood magic. In return, when we meet, you will tell me of your experiences in the world and anything new you learned. As we do now.”  

Surana shrugs, agreeing. She nods to Curiosity, indicating she should continue. 

“Then. Let’s practice.” 

The spirit laughed joyously. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wooo so important plot point yeah
> 
> So yeah Ashavise and her memories are going to come up quite often in the future
> 
>  
> 
> Also sorry I know she's picking up all the specializations, and how is she ever going to be good at them !! but really, she's only going to learn a bird shape and never study any other animals, as far as i've thought, anyway, so it's not really a combat ability... and her blood magic abilities are negligible. BUT, yeah she's going to be a badass. Mostly because she's SUPER SCARED of being captured by templars so it is literally her goal day and night to become a badass. Didn't really plan it like that. whoops.


End file.
